Sex Drive

I am so fucking funny when I'm drunk. I mean, usually I'm amusing in a sort of witty-crossword-puzzle-answer kind of way. Witty like Pogo or Orson Welles in the old The Third Man radio dramas. That is to say, I don't make anyone laugh, just sort of smile. But when I've got a little bread in my pocket, enough to get a massive drunk on, I might literally shit my pants laughing at my own jokes.

Literally. More than once. Sometimes three or four times in a night. It depends on what I've had to eat. If my dinner had a lot of cheese, I can get all bound up and then no matter how much I crack up, I can't shit. That feels like I'm gonna rip a crack halfway up my back and drop a cinder block in my trousers. But even that doesn't stop me from two things: 1) drinking more and 2) being a hilarious son of a bitch.

Earlier today I got a rebate check for buying International Coffees. Mostly Mrs. Filthy likes them, usually just to eat straight from the can while taking a bath. But I enjoy a cup every now and then, too. Laugh at me if you want, but trust me: make a cup of hazelnut mocha and huff some Testor's model glue and you really do feel like you're sitting in a Parisian bistro. With maggots eating your feet. Anyway, eight years of coffee drinking was the easiest 34 bucks a man can make. I spent a chunk of my newfound wealth on processing fees at the Usury-R-Us check-cashing store. What a rewarding career it must be to own one of those places and know that every day your exploitation helps keep the poor impoverished and drowning in debt that'll insure they never save a dime.

Then I spent ten bucks on the movies. I'm a man and I am not immune to the need to see tits on a big screen. It's way better then seeing them in a two-inch-square box on my computer. So, I went to see Sex Drive. What a fucking disappointment. Outside of a couple flashes of young breasts, the movie is practically devoid of nipples. Well, lady nipples. What the fuck is the point of making an R-rated teen sex comedy if you aren't even going to have sex in it? Or at least explicit sex.

Sex Drive is like if John Hughes, the maudlin master behind phony shitting parties like Breakfast Club, tried to make a sex movie, lost his balls halfway through and reverted to his teens-are-people-too formula. It has all of his trademarks: an over-sensitive protagonist that we're supposed to root for because he's sort of mopey and dull; a cute, opposite-sex best friend, and a comic-relief buddy.

Josh Zuckerman is the mopey teen who wants to pop his cherry like a ripe zit. His cute friend is played by Amanda Crew. The sassy, lothario friend is played by Clark Duke. Zuckerman really wants to stick it to Crew, but they've been friends so long they don't know they like each other. So, zuckerman decides to steal his abusive brother's Pontiac GTO and drive across country to put the Schlitz to a girl he's met online.

For some retarded reason, Crew comes along for the ride, as does Duke. They have all sorts of crazy adventures. They meet some Amish kids on Rumspringa invite them in to a party while the adults fix the broken GTO. Of course, this is where the sassy Duke learns what real love is, with the movie's hottest girl, Alice Greczyn (who does not take off her top - that sucks). I could spend a page or two here talking about her smile and silky skin. I'll spare you, though, and spend five or ten minutes pondering it on my own. And then I will feel ashamed.

The kids also get chased by some girl's crazed ex-boyfriend. Crew breaks a tooth and needs emergency dental surgery. Zuckerman's brother discovers his GTO stolen and hunts them down. They go to jail. They complete their journey and rather than Zuckerman hump his Internet gal, he and Crew finally admit they really love each other. no fucking shit. how else was this going to end? And why isn't Greczyn in it more? for all the pointless plot tangents and unfunny gags, why the fuck couldn't director Sean Anders think of a reason to have her bouncing on a trampoline in the nude?

Sex Drive is so damn derivative. It does a crap job of ripping off raunchy comedies with more nudity, more sex and funnier jokes. It also steals from all those shitty teen romantic comedies where a girl finally falls in love with the sweet guy after trying out all the mean jerks. I assume that Samuel Morse gets a royalty, since the movie telegraphs every fucking plot development. From the instant we learn Zuckerman is platonic friends with the cute-but-not-overtly-sexy Crew, we know they'll live happily ever after. From the moment Zuckerman's older brother rails against gays in the first scene, we know he'll come out at the end. And that we'll be expected to laugh at him acting gay. It was also as predictable as a Sarah Palin pregnancy test that the lothario dude would fall for the most pure girl, and change his ways for her.

Some of the obviousness would be forgivable if it were a skeleton for hanging some funny-ass gags. Outside of a donut costume gag, though, the jokes are just as tired. And the nudity: what a scam. We see a lot of topless girls' backs, but only about three seconds of tits. Man, a few nice breasts can make make up for a lot of bad comedy. Not here, though. Two Fingers for Sex Drive.

At least I still had twelve bucks left after the movie, and there was still plenty of time to get over my disappointment. I spent half my riches on three forty-ouncers of Steel Reserve. That shit is the shit. Seriously. If anyone ever tells you it's wrong to get drunk, whip out a can or bottle of Steel Reserve and say, "If God didn't want us tanked, why'd he make this?" I know 120 ounces of high-gravity malt liquor sounds like a lot of liquid, but it's not. If you think about it, it's only a gallon. And who among us hasn't drunk a gallon of motor oil, herbicide or pickled-egg brine on a dare or because some kid told you it could get you high? None, so shut the fuck up. Besides, with Steel Reserve you usually throw up after the first and second bottle. It has its own way of making room for more.

Between my second and third Steel Reserves I had this fucking great idea of how to get our country out of its recession/depressions, whatever the fuck it is. I can't remember all the details anymore, but I know this much: start collecting cans. All the cans you can find. Fill your garage and spare bedrooms with them. When I can remember the rest of the plan I'll let you know what to do with them.

I spent a dollar on superballs from the vending machine at the front of the supermarket. I ate one and threw the other at an old man.

My last five bucks I took down to the Tavern. I know a fin doesn't go far in a bar, but I was already lit up like a cop car at the apartments by the railroad tracks on Wadsworth. Besides, I know a super secret way to stretch a drinking budget farther. Order a beer, pay for, it drink it and then, oh fuck, I forgot the rest of that too. I'm still sort of a little drunk. Whatever the secret strategy was, though, it worked. I got so drunk I woke up in a pool of vomit (not my own) in a shrub on Grandview. Before that, though, I was the life of the God damned party. I was so fucking funny.

I got on the bar and pantomimed "The Devil Went Down to Georgia" even though the song wasn't playing. I think "Dude Looks Like a Lady" was, actually. Anyway, I did the whole devil part, and I did the innocent fiddler part, and I even acted out the hickory stump. It was fucking hilarious, especially because I pretended to play a banjo, not a fiddle. I wrestled Worm under the pool table and he pulled off my pants. I got up and ran around the bar shouting "Fire hose, fire hose fire hose!" with my wiener flopping around. Sue made Worm give me back my pants. But instead of putting them on my legs, I slipped them over my head, and ran around some more, asking people, "Who ate my legs?"

There were more antics, and they were all that funny and that damn clever. I'm sobering up now. The point, though, is that alcohol can work magic, and leave you with a lifetime of golden memories. It wears off, though, and then you remember how lonely you are. Probably still worth it.